


i love you, i love you

by actualromeo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (just a little bit. as a treat.), Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Platonic Relationships, jon & martin are the only ones that Appear but this is jon reflecting on his friends so, the jm is a bit sappy on this one for something that was meant to be abt jons platonic friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24475855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualromeo/pseuds/actualromeo
Summary: Jon reflects on his ex(?)-friends, his Martin, and the words"I love you"
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 95





	i love you, i love you

**Author's Note:**

> .. you can sorta tell i was thinking about tim when i thought of this fic initially.. keep thotting it up in heaven king, ily. jonmartin did as it usually does and kicked down my door to make my writing about them. thanks for the read :)

Obviously, Jon starts thinking about it in the safehouse. Scotland is the first time Jon- or Martin, really- has had time to think. To process. The last six months had been a continuous, agonizing slide downward, and before that, before the coma, was Jon picking his way downwards intentionally. Finding his own way down into hell before he reached the point of no return and the rocks crumbled beneath him, leaving him tumbling into the pit.

It’s not that he’s climbed out, but he’s stopped... sliding. The distance from the Institute was a factor. Having Martin back, knowing he’s safe, was a factor.

Love was a factor. Is a factor.

It’s-- Martin says it, obviously. They’re laying together in the one bed of the safehouse, having worked through the agonizing week and a half of, “Uh, should I sleep somewhere else, or?” and realized that their life is weird enough that a little cuddling isn’t the end of the world. Martin’s embrace is nothing like Daisy’s, but it still makes Jon miss her.

Anyway. Martin. He says, “I love you.” Quietly, buried into Jon’s hair, and it’s not like he could _know_ how those words seize Jon’s soul. But they do. They grab something in him that throws him off-kilter and vaguely nauseous-- but not with, with disgust. With love, really.

&

The thing is: Jon is not unfamiliar with platonic _I love you_ ’s. In some ways, they’re far easier than the romantic ones, although Jon has found that he tends to handle both poorly.

Tim was the first. It was back when they were in research, when Tim had just been moved to share a desk with Jon, and they quickly grew a rapport. He was sharp and dedicated to his work and friendly, even rakish, on occasion. Usually Jon would have detested a man like him, written him off as shallow, but something in Tim’s eyes wiped _shallow_ off the table rather quickly. There was darkness in there, something searching, a purpose, that Jon understood.

Still, he’s not certain how drinks with Timothy Stoker became a regular pastime. Jon had better things to do than drinks with co-workers, and though Tim didn’t feel the same way, he certainly didn’t need to meet with Jon alone when he’d insisted on not meeting any of Tim’s other friends. But here they were, with Jon drinking for the first time in months and Tim a drink and a half ahead of him.

It’s not drunk that Tim says it, though: they ended up taking a cab back to Tim’s, because Jon had found his ability to speak somewhat lacking by the end of the night, and Jon slept on his couch. Woke up to water and painkillers in the morning, and when Jon insisted on cooking breakfast as-- an apology for intruding, or something, the reasoning is lost on him now, he’d served it to Tim with a bit of a joking flourish.

Tim had looked up, squinty with pain but smiling, and said, “Loser,” and then, “Love you.”

He was three bites into his pancakes when he realized Jon was staring at him. The easy companionship in his eyes didn’t steel, but it did cloud a little. He looked at Jon like he was bracing himself, like Jon might react badly, and Jon realized he should probably assuage that somehow. A couple moments he grasped for words before managing a, “Uh. Yes,” and sitting down.

Needless to say, Tim didn’t repeat that for a while afterward.

Slowly, though, he worked back up to it. Once he realized- once Jon demonstrated, really, in his own way- that Jon wasn’t affronted, just startled. “I love you,” he’d said, seriously, after Jon had worked himself into a panic and Tim had worked him back down. “Thanks, love,” casually as he opened the email of leads Jon sent him. Once, he’d said, “Ily,” out loud. Not letter by letter either, said it like _ill-ey,_ and it was the only other time Jon reacted to his displays of affection, staring openly at him.

 _“Ily,”_ Jon had echoed back at him, horrified and fascinated at once.

A slow smile spread across Tim’s face, the kind that made Jon groan in exasperation before Tim even said whatever moronic thing was about to come out of his mouth. “Aww, thanks,” was what it was that time, smug and satisfied.

He hadn’t meant to mean it, it was a mocking gesture, but he found that he did. In the end, it was the closest he ever got to telling him. He’d never had the nerve, before; accepting it from Tim was one thing, but saying it back felt irrationally like a line he couldn’t cross.

After the worms, immediately after, Tim had clung to him, murmured, “I love you, I’m sorry, you’re alright,” like he was Jon’s lifeline. Like Jon was his, really-- they’d had to pry the two of them apart for quarantine, half out of their minds with the gas and the pain and the fear.

After the worms, a little while after, Tim had said, “I love you, but you’re not alright,” and followed it up with, “Neither am I. All of this is fucked up.”

It was an olive branch, and Jon had stared at him, straight-backed and trembling, and managed, “Thank you for your concern, Tim, but I’m quite fine.” Tim’s face twitched into a scowl, tried to say something more, but Jon dismissed him forcefully enough that he just stared and left. He never said it again.

(Once, Jon thought of telling Tim that he loved him. In the wax museum, everything went to shit around them, and Tim stared up at the face of all his nightmares while Jon lay helpless on what, in hindsight, was probably the floor. Jon looked at Tim, and he knew this would be the last time. He opened his mouth but _I love you_ stuck behind his teeth, unable to understand the words behind the sentiment.

“I don’t forgive you,” Tim said, “But thank you for this,” and Jon heard--)

&

Georgie, he’d said he loved many times before. Georgie was the first person he’d found he truly meant it with, actually.

Jon knew what went down in relationships, what dancing steps he was expected to do, even if he never did it quite right. It was probably so many of why his earlier relationships went south so quickly: he was a terrible dancer, and a terrible liar.

He was liberal with his declarations of love, before he meant them, and Georgie was reserved. She always looked at him when he told her that he loved her, something pensive and tight. The change was simple, really. One day, he said, “I love you,” and she looked at him, and it was different. Something warm and happy. Belatedly, he realized that for the first time, he really meant it. Bit odd to realize that _after_ he said it, so he just repeated, “I love you.”

Georgie laughed, a sound that made Jon overwhelmingly pleased, and said, “I know. I love you too.”

Of course, that was all romantic. Jon became familiar with loving Georgie platonically well after that, when he was scared and scarred and owned. He hadn’t quite learned the lesson from Tim, yet- that he needed to say it before it was too late- but something about it with Georgie was easier. He’d said it before, after all, and it was practically routine. “I love you,” he said without meaning to, but not without meaning it.

She’d been leaving for the day, and it was really just a synonym for ‘goodbye,’ but it made her freeze, look at him with one brow raised. Jon’s face went so hot it hurt. “I me- you, you’re g- you’re doing me a, a rather large service, and I--”

“A _rather large service?”_ she echoed, now grinning. It was nice to see her grin. Those days she’d been so concerned for him it made Jon ache with guilt. “God, you dork, I love you too. I’ll be back by five.”

And then it was routine again. “You made me an _omelet?_ In _bed?_ I love you so much,” Georgie had laughed.

“Admiral,” Jon had cooed, trying to draw the fat cat back to him. He remained firmly in the snickering Georgie’s lap. “Come on, cm’here. You don’t deserve her, you don’t love her like I love her.”

“Hey, you bastard,” she'd choked, holding the recorder above his head. The despairing fear on his face hadn't swayed her. “I love you. Tell me what’s wrong. You aren’t getting these back until you do.”

“Georgie,” he'd sighed, patience whittled down not by her stubbornness but by his own fear. “I’m leaving because- because I love you. I _cannot_ have you get hurt because of me.” She'd argued, but Jon got his way in the end, and a new flat to boot.

After that, he did not speak to Georgie for a very long while. The few times he did, her irritation with him was palpable, and he thought, _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ and did not say it. He’d not yet learned the lesson from Tim.

By the time he did, waking up in the hospital bed to her suspicion and anger, it was a bit too late. “Georgie, I love--”

She held up a hand, jaw tight. “Don’t,” she said, and Jon froze. His head swam from the hunger and the rejection in equal measure as she made her way to the door. With one last look, she said, “Take care of yourself,” and left. It did not quite mean _I love you,_ but... Well. He hadn’t exactly earned it anyway.

After that, he did not see Georgie for a very long while. When he finally did, the conversation was stilted and awkward, and Jon thought, _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ and did not say it. “Yes, the other office,” he said instead, directing her to where she’d find Melanie.

“Thanks,” she said, nodding briskly. “I-” then, “Take care of yourself.”

Jon did not hear but rather knew that _I love you,_ was stuck behind her teeth. Long after the door closed, he said, “End recording,” and did not cry.

&

Daisy was the first friend Jon has had in a while, at that point. The less said about that the better, really. But they were friends, something the Jon of a year ago would have barked a terrified laugh at the concept of. For all the people Jon loved, Detective Tonner had not been one of them, sending something sharp and scared through him. For all he loved her now, he couldn’t quite tell when that fear had softened into care. Sometime after the Coffin, likely, but maybe not. Maybe when he understood the pull that drew her to the blood, or maybe when he discovered her imprisonment.

Either way.

He sat by her side, and when they could manage it, in her arms. The tangle of limbs was a bit claustrophobic, but it was nice in other ways, so they worked for it.

“Listen to the quiet,” he said, and she jammed her head up under his chin, taking a deep breath. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she replied, and then they listened.

When Jon felt... especially frustrated by the animosity of his assistants, he took solace in that. He loved her. She loved him. He loved her, he loved her, he _loved her,_ and he was _not_ going to fuck this one up. He’d learned from Tim. He’d learned from Georgie. “I love you,” he said at any given opportunity. She looked at him strangely a couple of times, when the desperation of it bled into his voice, but she understood.

It was him who said it first, even. After all, he’d learned. “I, ah. I love you, you know,” he’d said, quietly. “Thank you for...” and with one hand, he tried to encompass the extent to which she tethered him to humanity.

She raised her brows at him, a tired, curious motion, as she leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thank you, too,” she replied eventually, her tone that even measure that scared Jon so much, so long ago. It took a little while for her to say it back, not that Jon had ever really expected it. “Christ, you prick,” she’d groaned, while he prattled with trembling hands about monsterhood and being evil. “Get over here, I love you.” He blinked, and when his eyes opened again, he found himself in her arms.

Past a certain point in that never-ending tumble downwards, Jon didn’t know what he’d do without her. She joined the very small club of people Jon thought he might quite literally die without, sitting right alongside Martin. It used to be larger: Georgie used to be there. Tim used to be there, Sasha used to be there, Basira, Melanie, even Elias. He lived without them, and never seemed to learn. (He doesn’t want to live without Daisy, doesn’t want to think about how it might be happening already.)

When Trevor and Julia left, Daisy practically collapsed on her feet. “We could still get them,” she said darkly, and Jon’s breath caught.

“Daisy, no,” he said, trying not to plead. “It’s like you say. Don’t listen to the blood,”

“Listen to the quiet,” she echoed. For a moment, she looked up at him, something resigned in her eyes. “I love you.”

Jon did not breathe easy, at that. He was not going to lose her, not to the Hunt, and not to a lack of it- irrational, sure, but- “Even so, if it’s--” he’d pointed out, and gotten shut down rather quickly.

In the end, with Daisy’s eyes red as she stood guard, Jon did not say he loved her, and Daisy did not say she loved him. The thing that wasn’t the Sasha he’d once so silently loved crooned from somewhere nearby, and he said, “Just don’t die.”

It wasn’t _I love you,_ but maybe Daisy heard it. It was Basira who replied, “Go,” and he hoped she heard it too.

&

Jon does not love Martin Blackwood platonically.

It took him a rather embarrassing amount of time to figure that out, but. He does not love Martin platonically, and... Well. _I really loved you, you know?_ is all rather past-tense. He doesn’t love Martin in the past-tense, either.

Which.

This is fine. He has loved people platonically before, and he can do it again. He has lied when he’s said _I love you_ before, and he can do it again. Martin deserves that much, anyway, after all Jon has done.

A dry tongue chokes the words from him, though, and all of the sudden he notices the lines of tension running through Martin. His fingers dig into Jon’s shoulders gently, and Jon knows there is an apology and another declaration of love building behind his teeth, fighting for dominance, and knows how much the words hurt. How much any words hurt, with the Lonely so deep in his bones, and Jon has not responded in a rather long time.

Crying is a strange sensation, when he hadn’t in a while, but here he is. Not properly crying, but teary-eyed, trembling embarrassingly, and it’s-- it’s with pride.

With love.

Inconvenient that, when he’s supposed to be dragging a lie of it out of his mouth, but he can’t help it. He knows how hard Martin has worked to escape the clutches of the mist, how hard he worked before that to keep his head above the manipulations of Lukas, how hard he worked before _that_ to keep the Archival staff together. It bubbles up out of his mouth thickly: “I--god, I love you.”

A moment of silence passes between them, and then Martin laughs, a little relieved noise. “Jeez, Jon. Keep a man waiting, would you?” Jon isn’t quite aware of how long he spent in silent contemplation, but he feels bad anyway. Martin’s voice goes softer, teasing gentler, when he speaks next, nudging Jon. “What, you’ve never said it before? Sad sack.”

“No, no,” Jon says, trying to match Martin’s humor and failing spectacularly. An accomplishment, considering Martin himself fell quite short of humor himself. “I have, just not--” he swallows, and carefully does not look up at Martin. Takes a deep breath, in and out, and says, “Martin, when you... when you said you lov _ed_ me, in the Lonely--”

“Jon, I just said that I love you.”

“I meant,” Jon bites, frustration building. “I am aware that you. Harbored romantic feelings for me, for quite some time, and...”

That is all he gets out before he is cut off by Martin’s quiet, “Oh.” It’s not heartbroken, but Jon knows it might have been, were it not for the jarring temperature drop. With alarming clarity, Martin’s perspective is-- he doesn’t so much _know_ it, as it is broadcasted into him. Martin, loving Jon, _romantically_ , though he’d be whatever Jon wanted from him.

It’s more than Jon could have begun to ask for, considering how he’s acted to Martin in the past.

And he’s just accidentally convinced him that Jon didn’t love him back, something Martin had let himself dare to believe for a moment.

Unbidden but with no strings pulling, he shoots off Martin’s chest, out of his arms, to stare into his eyes. Something in his gaze is intense, he knows, but Martin cannot shy away. “Martin Blackwood,” he says, _intones,_ with one hand finding his cheek _._ “I am in love with you.”

There’s another moment of silence, and Jon realizes suddenly that he was a bit dramatic on that one. Still, Martin just cocks his head, and the doubt in his eyes pains Jon. “Like--”

“Romantically. Very romantically, in fact, it’s, um. I.”

“You?”

“Yes, and you--”

“I am, yes, I,” Martin is laughing, suddenly, the room warmer and brighter for his smile. “I am romantically in love with you too, Jon. Jesus.”

If there is a day where Martin’s laugh and smile don’t make him feel like he might simply combust with affection, Jon doesn’t want it to come. The man below him makes him swell with it, a stupid smile spreading across his face that he finds he does not mind. A couple of potential responses flit through his mind, but he just watches Martin experience happiness for a moment and then settles back down upon him. “Good,” he says, and the satisfaction is thick and rich in his voice.

“No need to sound so smug about it,” Martin mutters in response, but he tilts his head back down into Jon’s hair, and says, “I love you,” and again, testing it in his mouth:

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”


End file.
